


Whole Lotta Love

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dude, I gotta tell you, it’s only natural for a man to experience a little increased blood flow to his dick while listening to Led Zep.</p><p>This story is an AU set after Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whole Lotta Love

Dean pulls away from Sam and their chests separate with a soft sticky pop, which he tries not to hear. He avoids Sam’s eyes and turns up the music again— _the only thing that’s goddamn working in this goddamned car_. He grabs the nearly empty bottle of Johnny Walker from where it’s lodged between Sam’s torso and the back of the seat—a gift from a guy with a poltergeist a few states ago that they’d thrown in the back and forgotten until tonight—and manages not to see Sam, only an inch or two of heaving chest and sweaty brown skin that could belong to anyone.

Dean swigs down the equivalent of two or three shots, desperately hoping the whiskey will light his fire again, wash his mind away with the heavy thud of Metallica through the speakers. He holds the bottle out in front of him, leaning forwards, eyes on the white vinyl roof just above his head— _needs a bit of a clean_ —and feels Sam’s hand nudge him as he takes the bottle, his hips shifting under Dean’s thighs as he props himself on one arm and swallows.

Dean hears a cough, a splutter, and his eyes flick down. Sam’s face is flushed; he’s wiping his wet mouth with the back of the hand holding the bottle, whiskey is running down his chest over the shallow curves of his ribs. _Fuck._

Dean hears a thud that must be the empty bottle dropping to the floor of the car; feels a jolt as Sam drops down onto the seat again.

“Come on man,” Sam’s voice is strained, his hips twisting. His legs are bent awkwardly up behind Dean, thighs pushing into Dean’s lower back, his jeans only half off and the open zip scratching Dean’s skin. “Do it. Get it over with.”

Dean looks down and lets himself see little things: Sam has braced one arm over the ridge of the seat; his knuckles are white; the top of his head is pushed hard against the door. He’s biting his lip and his eyes slide away to stare at a point somewhere in the tight space between them.

“Do it Dean.”

Dean feels the whiskey flooding his brain, or maybe it’s just the urgent sound of Sam’s voice, but he wipes his hand through the hair around Sam’s cock, over the soft skin above, gathers up as much come as he can and smears it on his own dick.

Shutting his eyes tight he fists his wet hand over his dick again and again. He’s half hard, he’s getting there, the whiskey’s singing in his blood, and against his retina he can see a picture of Sam’s neck stretching as he’d arched it back, the patch of skin over his collarbone that had turned red, the way his lips had pulled back from his teeth as he rubbed himself up into Dean’s body, as his dick had pushed roughly into Dean’s hip.

“Think about something,” Sam says, and Dean changes it, a woman now, the last woman he fucked. She’d been dark haired and her hair had fallen across her face and tangled over her breasts. She’d teased and laughed and taunted him, and then she’d gone quiet for ages, just panting and moving, and then she’d thrashed wildly under him as she came shouting a string of fuck fuck fucks, _that was doing it, that was it,_ and without letting himself think at all, Dean finds Sam’s hole with his wet fingers and pushes in as gently as he can.

Sam yelps and Dean pulls back, but Sam says “No, just do it man, just keep going.” So Dean pushes back in, but he takes his other hand off his cock and reaches awkwardly over Sam to try the door—just one last time, and the window too—but nothing has changed, it isn’t enough, they’re still stuck, and the forward pressure has rocked his fingers a little further into Sam.

“Dean,” says Sam.

Dean’s heart is pounding so hard that all he can hear is the roar of blood in his ears and _sorry sorry sorry sorry,_ and he hopes Sam can hear it too. He pulls his fingers out and slides off the side of the seat. The steering wheel jams painfully into his arm but he peels Sam’s jeans off, pushes his legs up, and gets back up on the seat. He pulls Sam’s ass between his thighs and rests his legs over his shoulders. _I’m sorry sorry sorry,_ and he takes his hard cock in his hand and guides it into Sam. Stars burst in his head, Sam’s feet brace on the roof of the car, and Dean pushes forwards into the tight heat of Sam as carefully as he can over the shaking and shuddering of his own limbs.

“Dean,” says Sam, and Dean looks up from the place where his cock disappears into Sam’s body. Sam is looking at the roof, his face strained with tension, the muscles in his chest drawn tight like he’s holding his breath. He reaches behind him and tries the door again—but nothing. His eyes lock on Dean’s for a second. “Go,” he says, and his face closes like a door.

~

After Dean comes he reaches for the handle behind him; Sam reaches backwards over his own head and both doors open. They spill out of the car on opposite sides. Dean manages to crawl away from the highway onto the dead grass before he starts vomiting, but Sam just lies where he falls, one foot still on the seat, the rest of his body flat on the dusty ground.

Over the sound of Sam’s retching Dean can hear the mild desert night. A little wind, a few strange calls like animals or birds, and his own heart thudding into the ground.

~

Later—it could have been an hour or a year—they get up and dress. Without exchanging a word they open the trunk and exorcise the car with holy water, a crucifix, and a few Latin phrases.

They get back in the car, it starts easily, and they drive in silence—Dean doesn’t even put a tape in—till they come to an all night gas station. Dean goes in and buys coffee and water; fills up the car. Sam sits in the front and waits, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes open but staring unfocused out the window. When Dean hands him his coffee he takes it without a word, without looking at Dean. The coffee is strong and smells rich, they’ve got both windows down and wind blows through the car, but it doesn’t help—Dean’s senses are still full of the sharp smell of Sam’s day old sweat, the sickening smell of sex.

Dean drives until they come to a cheap motel on the outskirts of a small town, just after dawn. When he splurges and gets them separate rooms, Sam doesn’t object.

~

 _Before._

They’d been driving again and it felt good. The Impala had been repaired by a shit-kicking gang of professionals they’d found in Arizona—the kind that don’t worry about paperwork, perfect for the Winchesters—and among them one unbelievably gorgeous woman. She’d had red hair, a fantastic way with a spot welder, a saucy smile, and a _really_ beautiful rack. Dean did everything he could to get her into bed.

To his surprise he got nowhere with her; the saucy smile turned hostile, and after a few days of Dean still hanging around one of the other guys took him aside. He was big built, his arms laced with tattoos, and he towered over Dean. When he leaned in and said, _"Word to the wise, don't go there man,"_ Dean knew he should have listened—but there was just something about her—he could hardly keep his eyes away.

They’d picked the car up late afternoon, regretfully saying goodbye to the gang—Dean still kind of hoping for a chance with the redhead, Sam rolling his eyes—and then just headed out of town without even caring where they were going.

As they rolled down the highway Dean had let his head fall back on the ledge of the seat and the down and dirty opening guitar chords of _Whole Lotta Love_ warm up his body like cheap whiskey. The setting sun had flashed in the side mirror and got pleasantly into his eyes. Outside the car a haze of brown fields and dust slid by, the shadow of the Impala thrown just ahead, grazing the edge of the road. _Christ,_ that sleazy strumming, that stretched out voice, they got him right in the gut every time—and the steady thrum of rubber on the road ran right through the music.

He’d slid a bit further down the seat, feeling good. Everything was okay, his baby was all put back together, Dad was answering when they called, and his twat of a brother was taking up all the space behind the wheel, actually driving like a man for once. He smoothed a hand over the leather seat.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

Sam had glanced at his lap, lips tight like he was trying to hold in a laugh, shaking his head.

Dean had looked down to see some serious wood in his pants.

He sucked his bottom lip under his teeth and sat up a little straighter to hide it. “Dude, I gotta tell you, it’s only natural for a man to experience a little increased blood flow to his dick while listening to Led Zep.”

Sam had looked pointedly at the bulge in Dean’s jeans and said, sweet as sugar, “Trust me. That isn’t natural.”

“Dude, that’s sick.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, _I’m_ sick.”

~

They’d swapped over at a gas station, and while Sam bought some food Dean jacked himself off in the men’s room, grinning with relief when he slid behind the wheel. At first he was mildly weirded out when his hard-on came back, but by nightfall he’d had to throw his jacket over his lap to hide it. His balls ached like a bastard, and if this was just an over-the-top reaction to not getting anywhere with the hot welding babe, it was a bit much.

The road had spun ahead of him in long slow curves, the Impala’s lights digging a small cave in the black, revealing nothing but endless white lines, stunted bushes, and the odd pair of reflecting eyes.

Dean had scrubbed his hand over his face, rubbed his eyes. Sam was stretched out uncomfortably beside him, his arm slung over the back of the seat. He’d shifted round a bit, and his arm slid onto Dean’s shoulders. Dean had shrugged him off, and he moved again, his arm landing safely in his own lap, drool at the corners of his mouth.

Dean had turned the radio off and listened instead to the crunch of the tires on the road, the growl of the engine. He’d dug around under his feet and fished out their bottle of water, took a swig. _Shit, his balls really fucking ached, this was stupid._ He’d pulled the car over as gently as he could, hoping to avoid waking Sam, thinking he’d take care of business down the side of the Impala away from the road.

He killed the lights and for a moment everything was black, then the moon emerged from a cloud and lit the empty desert around them. He tried to open his door, and that’s when he found out they were trapped.

Sam woke up with a hard on, and for a while there was nothing but cursing as they tried to get out of the car. They tried to break a window with the butt of a gun, but no luck; they tried to start the car to find someone to help them, but nothing, the engine was dead. So were their phones. The only thing that worked was the radio.

Sam was fishing around in the back for something heavier to slug at the window when he found the whiskey and then the letter. They could read it easily in the moonlight.

  
_Dean,_   
__  
_Babe, you’ve got some serious issues. You need to_   
_get laid, honey, sorry I couldn’t help you personally._   
_I’ve taken care of it for you though, you’ll see._   
__  
_PS. There’s only one way out of the car, boys,_   
_so keep on trying till you find it, don’t give up._   
__  
_xxTash_

 

“Dean! You fucking bastard! What has she done to us?” Sam yelled, and if Dean hadn’t been so worried he would have laughed to see his little brother hunched over on the seat, his head jammed into the roof, red faced and practically spitting, with a giant hard-on tenting out his jeans.

Turned out the redhead was a witch. They found out what she’d done soon enough.

~

Dean woke from a dream of Sam bleeding and burning on the ceiling to see him outlined in the doorway of his motel room like a pale ghost.

He sat up. The heavy curtains were closed and it was too dim to see Sam’s face.

Dean's throat was sore from throwing up, his body ached with tension, and the words he wanted to say dried in his mouth.

“Can’t sleep,” said Sam. He came into the room. He threw his bedding down on the floor beside Dean’s bed and rolled up in it.

“Sam, I—”

“I know, Dean, okay? I know you’re sorry. Right now I don’t give a fuck. Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”

~

Dean went from sleeping like the recently dead to lying awake night after night. He looked like shit all the time, like he’d scraped himself off a bathroom floor after the bender from hell every single day. His usual cure for all ills was getting laid, but he couldn’t go there, and wasn’t it a constant joy to know the last person he’d fucked was his brother? But in spite of all the tension, they went back to sharing a room, they had to, it cost too much otherwise, and anyway—Sam said he couldn’t sleep when he was alone.

Dean couldn’t sleep when Sam was there, as it turned out, but he figured that was only fair.

Dean would lie awake in the dark listening to Sam breathe across the room. He’d close his eyes and see Sam stretched under him, turned on against his will. He’d see the moment he’d come and how his eyes had flicked open, almost totally black like he was possessed. He’d see the place where their bodies had joined, the way Sam’s come had shone sticky and wet on his stomach, the way Sam’s jaw had drawn so tight when Dean moved inside him.

So he’d open his eyes and watch the ceiling instead, until enough light crept in that he could get up and escape into the day.


End file.
